


Fire in Our Bones

by Cinderscream



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, and find comfort in each other, it ends pretty sweetly i think, two old friends think on old memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderscream/pseuds/Cinderscream
Summary: They're connected by a history than none of the others would understand.
Relationships: Celine | The Seer/Wilford Warfstache | William J. Barnum | The Colonel, Damien | The Mayor/Wilford Warfstache | William J. Barnum | The Colonel, Darkiplier/Wilford Warfstache
Comments: 4
Kudos: 66





	Fire in Our Bones

**Author's Note:**

> a gift for pull-the-hoodie-strings on tumblr :D Been a while since i wrote the boys, so I hope it's okay

“Do you think about it often? About who you used to be?”

It’s a melancholic question, coming from Dark, but not unexpected, not during this season. 

Between them, the table stretches like a chasm, memories lodged into the spirals of the wood, memories Wilford can’t bring himself to look at too closely for fear of losing himself farther than he already has. Across from him, Dark sits with his legs neatly crossed, dark eyes peering into the transparent, bubbly depths of his champagne, red-and-cyan flickering across his blank face. 

Wilford knows what he’s thinking about. He’s thinking about it too, and it keeps his voice muzzled, knowing that they’re of one mind. 

There’s mirror shards scattered on the floor that they should pick up, but neither of them have moved since they sat down, both too lost in the mazes of their minds. Wilford imagines he sees slivers of Damien and Celine where Dark should be in the broken reflections, traces of William that remind him of when he didn’t have so much blood on his hands, and it makes his thoughts swirl too close to that grief that had caused Dark to shatter the mirror in the first place, shadows and static sticking to the corners of the room like malicious cobwebs, swallowing the warmth of the room. 

“No”, Wilford answers far past the time he should have, seconds having ticked into minutes, his voice too loud after the stretch of silence. He takes a drink of his wine. He can’t afford to dwell on that wretched time, those horrible events, and for the most part, he doesn’t. Usually, he forgets they ever happened.

  
Something about Dark brings them rushing back. 

He closes his eyes to better revel them, the mansion, _his home, building itself in his head, crystal chandeliers, tall mahogany steps, the massive chessboard, the pool. His friends are with him, Damien in his baby blue sweater, a gift from the district attorney sitting in an overstuffed armchair by the fire, a book open on his lap. He’s fallen asleep, drool on the corner of his mouth, raven hair gleefully wild, out of the constraints of the gel that normally tames it._

_There’s holly and garlands everywhere, the smell of cider drifting down from the kitchen, powdered snow sitting on the sills of glazed windows, and William, Mark, and Celine sit in a circle nearby, careful to not wake the mayor with their game of cards. There’s fondness in the crinkle of Celine’s brown eyes. The red bow in her hair keeps catching the light and William’s eyes are drawn to it (to her), and it’s the exact shade as the bow tie that hangs loosely from Mark’s neck. They’re all laughing softly, a warm drink dispersing the chill from William’s hands and his chest aches with longing, with heartache with-_

“You think of _them_ , often. Don’t you.”

The images in his head disperse, Mark falling apart into ash, disappearing into the snow while Celine distorts, her face twisting until the fondness is gone and Wilford opens his eyes to meet Dark’s scarlet stare.   
“I miss them”, he admits softly.

“I’m right here”, Dark responds. His face is blank, but Wilford has known him- them- for so long, too long for him to hide anything from him. There’s the twist of his mouth, lips going thin (Damien), fingers curling into tight fists (Celine), the whistle of his static growing in intensity (Dark). He’s upset. 

“You are not them anymore than I am the colonel”, Wilford chides, a shadow of a smile flickering on his face. Time means nothing to a being like him, but he’s tired. 

They’re both so old. They’re both so haunted. 

Dark’s static goes quiet, and the glass is gone from the floor. He stands, leaving his champagne on the table and Wilford listens to the quiet clip of his polished shoes on the tiled floor as he walks closer. The blankness recedes from his face and his suit changes, black turning into white, his red eyes softening into blue. With a swipe of his hand, his hair is slicked back, neat and tidy. 

“Then let's pretend for the night,'' says Dark, holding out his hand for WIlford to take. 

The darkness clears from the room and it almost looks like they’re in the old ballroom, Dark’s face softened by the golden lighting, a single stray hair falling into his face. Wilford takes his hand (it’s ice cold, stiff), and they position themselves to dance, Wilford’s warm palm on Dark’s him, Dark’s on his shoulder. There’s soft music playing, an ethereal voice lulling them in French while they sway, something like peace falling over them. 

This moment won’t last, he knows. They both know. Dark’s tempestuous temper will return and Willford will forget again and they’ll be locked in that back and forth between helping and hindering each other, the sharp whips of Dark’s shadows strangled in pink miasma of WIlford’s cotton candy, saccharine world and this here, this little chunk of serenity will exist only as another faded photograph in their long album of torn and burned history. It’s inevitable that they’ll come back next year for this exact conversation, for a dance William never got, because fate (Mark) had decided that he didn't deserve it. 

But they’re in the eye of the storm. They relish in this moment of peace, where the world can’t hurt them, where their memories don’t cause them pain. They can pretend for the length of this song and the next that there is no blood on Wilford’s hands, that Dark isn’t a being made up of fragments glued together by loathing. In this moment they’re simply two men who’ve lost too much of themselves but are whole together, two pieces of a puzzle that’s missing far too many pieces. 

“I miss them,'' says Wilford. Dark is looking somewhere even Wilford can’t see.He hope he’s seeing something nice, like WIlford had seen. This isn’t a place for dark memories. 

“Me too”, Dark replies, and for a moment, he sounds just like Damien. 


End file.
